Angelus Lacrimae
by Gatti
Summary: Hell is not a place, it's a state of mind; hell is obsession with a voice, a face, a name...
1. Our Judge, we believe, shall come...

All characters unless otherwise noted are copyright the blokes who made Escaflowne. Lyrics are copyright Stephen Schwartz, or whoever else wrote them. All other things pertaining to this story, including the title, are copyright myself. Please do not steal. 

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_Angelus Lacrimae, Chapter I  


Judex Crederis Esse Venturus...  


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Red. 

The first thing I remember was red. The red of my eyelids, with the rainbow of irrelevant shapes and lines an ever-changing kaleidoscope against the thin membrane. The skin was illuminated by the light of a thousand suns all gathered in a sextet above me, and now burning me with their intense, furious glow. Underneath me I felt the hard coldness of metal against my bare skin.   
The metal... 

_His eyes opened with a sudden jolt, and the pupils contracted into pinpricks, shriveling up in protest of the vicious onslaught of white light. His heart threatening to burst through its rib cage, pumping madly on the adrenaline high. The dragon! _

The dragon was breathing heavily, gushing green blood from the numerous wounds that marred its scaly, diamond-backed hide. The boy panted just as heavily, his sword covered in the green. There was a pause between them, and the dragon's triangular head bowed ever-so slightly. Its amber, black-slit eyes were dulling, and the grey flap of eyelid was lowering. It was dying.  
They stared at each other; the fighter staring at himself in the eye of the beast. A connection was formed as they regarded each other.  
_I have defeated you, mighty creature. You will die this day. _  
He was too exhausted to deliver the final blow, deciding instead to wait until it bled to death. His body screamed for rest, the blood-soaked armor upon it feeling as heavy as the world. He took another gasping breath, and began to lower his sword. 

_You are wrong, human. _The eyelid suddenly sprang open, the amber orb within bulging out of its socket in wild anticipation. He had barely enough time to realize his deadly mistake before the jaws ripped open; the long knives within glistening. With a shriek the serpentine body surged forward. 

_A white flash entered his mind as the memory came to an abrupt end. What happened? Had he killed it? He squinted against the light, bringing a hand up to shade his eyes. He couldn't see anything; the thousand-suns had blinded him and left mutating blobs of dark blue dots in its wake. There was no dragon to be seen. Nor, he realized, were there grass, or trees, or any sounds of the clearing. Indeed, there was no sound at all._  
Where am I? _The surrounding shadows provided no answer, the only light focused on the cold slab he lay upon._ Am I dead?_ He rubbed his eyes with his hand, and began to recollect his memories. _

The boy screamed as he fell to the ground, clutching his shoulder and curling into a fetal position. Through his gloves he felt bone beneath the waves of spurting blood, and his stomach churned.  
_Oh god...oh god I'm going to die...I'm going to die..._ He looked up to see the dragon lift its head high, the jaws opened in a wide grin. Crimson rain dripped onto his face - his blood. It shrieked again and stared him in the eye. 

_**I** have defeated you. It is you who will die._

It was his own fault...he had let down his guard. Images of his remaining family flashed before his eyes.  
_Mother...Van..._ He stared back, daring the creature to take its last blow. Without warning, the dragon turned. Dragging its long body on its powerful front legs, it moved backwards into the forest. The cavernous maw closed and melded into the canopy like a dissipating mist. 

'Am... am I safe?' He heard the laborious footfalls grow more and more quiet, until there was nothing but his own rasping breath to comfort him. 'No, with my body...' He rolled onto his back, leaving his hand on the wound and his sentence unfinished. The fountain of blood that flowed from his body pooled around him, drenching his armor and body. Looking up into the sky, his vision blurred with tears of mixed emotions. 

'Mother...' His face crumpled as the tears burst past the eyelids that had been keeping them away, and he let out a choking sound that was a partial mix of a sob and a whimper. He wanted his mother, and he wanted to go home.  
'Mother..._**mother!!**_' he screamed, the frustrated tone and pitch sounding unearthly to his own ears. The pain _wouldn't ... go ... away_. He wanted it all to just disappear. He wanted to go home **now**. 'Someone please... ple..ea....ease... oh god please...'   
_I'm going to die. I'm only fifteen. Alone... is this what dying is like, father?... _His eyelids drooped over his eyes, his sobs becoming faint whimpers. 

He was tired. He was so tired... 


	2. ...In You, Lord, have I trusted...

First off... I was so pleased with your reviews, I decided to post the next Chapter more earlier than planned.   
Now to answer a question, the dragon has markings like a diamondback rattlesnake. I meant to describe the markings, not the hardness. Thanks for pointing it out. 

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_Angelus Lacrimae, Chapter II  


...In Te, Domine, Speravi...  
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Where am I? Am I dead? It's so dark in here... the only light is on me. There's someone out there, I can feel it. Who's there...? 

'Nobleman from the country protected by dragons...' A voice emanated from the endless darkness, interrupting the eerie silence that blanketed the shadow abyss. It echoed off walls that weren't there, drowning his ears in a deep resonating base. 

'Who are you?' he called into the black, not expecting an answer, and perhaps dreading the idea of one. 

'My name is Dornkirk, he who attempts to control fate by using the power of Atlantis,' was the disembodied reply. The voice was decidedly male. He had heard stories of this Dornkirk, though was unsure of the line between truth and fiction; a stranger that had appeared full of strange, new ideas. It was rumoured he was from the cursed Mystic Moon, and he had come to end the war that had consumed all of Gaia. Ludricrous, it was, this idea of ending the War. The people of Gaia had always been fighting, and would for generations to come. Dornkirk had many followers, however, and was said to be building a huge city in the reclusive land of Zaibach.  
One word pulled at his mind. 

'Power of Atlantis...?' That name had not been used for ages. The stories about his mysterious, wraith-like mother had talked of Atlantis; how she and her demon race of the winged Draconians had come from the accursed land. His father, Goau, would not stand for such damning tales of his beloved wife, and her people were never mentioned again. Varie was a strong and loving wife and mother, and her Draconian blood had not kept the King of Fanelia from marrying her against all recommendations from the Council. She did not leave her husband's side until his death. Thus, his eldest son was sent off to slay a dragon as part of the rite to become King.   
_Not that anyone wanted a half-bred demon as a King..._

'The reason you survived is because of the power of Atlantis within you,' Dornkirk answered suddenly, breaking through the boy's reverie. 'Let's create a world free from war.' The voice, long since having lost its godlike aura, said thoughtfully, as if he were suggesting they go for a lovely stroll through the woods. The boy sat up, shielding his eyes from the strong light, and tried to find any trace of Dornkirk. 

'Is this place...?' He suddenly felt a heavy weight on the right side of his body. 

_The fangs glistened in the sunlight, two rows of the long knives bared and heading straight to him. He began to raise his sword, but in an instant dozens of sharp teeth buried themselves deeply into his bicep and forearm, piercing cleanly through the armor and bones. The dragon clenched its jaws tightly, impaling the arm, and jerked its head to the side. With a sickening rip, the skin tore away from his torso; his shoulder cracking as loud as a dry branch as the arm dislocated, pulled straight from the socket. The momentum threw him far back, and he landed with a scream on the bleeding, shredded remnants of his arm. The dragon tossed its head, and the severed limb flew from its gaping mouth, blood swirling from it in crimson arcs. It landed by the sword that was now completely useless._

A white cloth had been covering him, and he emotionlessly pushed it off his shoulder, expecting to see a disfigured, bandaged stump.  
_What...??_  
A large, rounded piece of metal protruded from the flesh of his shoulder (_or what was left of it_), three corded straps embedded into his chest. His eyes widened in horror as they followed the metallic monstrosity down, watching as several darkly coloured cords flexed with his involuntary movement. Shakingly, he lifted up the thing that was attached to him, staring as the arm lifted to reveal a shining, grotesque imitation of a hand. Long, skeletal 'fingers' shook and twitched with his movements, each tipped with a fine sickle-shaped claw.   
He stared at the arm with a muted, growing disbelief as all living colour left his face. 

He screamed. 

_What have you done to me?? What is this?? This isn't an...I don't have an arm...what is this? I lost my arm... I lost it to the dragon! What is this thing? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME?! This isn't me! This isn't a part of me! What have you done to me? Get it off... get it away from me... **GET IT AWAY FROM ME!!** _  
He pulled as hard as he could, moving his hand up the hauntingly skeletal 'arm' and pulling at it with a fierce obsession. The shoulder stretched against the skin, and pain erupted as he tried to pull the cords that were buried in his skin. Blood dripped from where the metal cut deep, and where the skin tore, but still he pulled.  
_I want to die... I want to die... get this thing away from me..._  
Out of the shadows, the figures of four cloaked men approached him carefully. They were expressionless, vast spectres wrapped in darkness with their eyes staring at him. Finding his voice, he began to shriek at them, 

'WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME??' He wanted to run; to go hide in a dark corner away from their prying eyes and the light that hid nothing. They held a commanding power...he could not move except to watch as one of them pulled out a long syringe. 

_I screamed even as the drug filled my veins, attacking my brain until I collapsed onto the slab, still clutching at the thing that invaded by body. It was not me, it was not of me. I hoped, deep in my subconcious, in the silly, immature way of a fifteen-year-old, that I would wake up and it would all be a dream; that nothing had happened, and I was at home with my mother and my little brother. When I would wake up, I would discover the harsh cruelty of reality.  
I would then decide I was no more alive than the metal in my body. That day, when the dragon tore off this arm, Folken Lacour de Fanel died._


End file.
